


Toes

by orphan_account



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Angst, Minor Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo prefers Celty. </p><p>Shinra just has that creepy smile with teeth too shiny.  He always prods at his injuries and begs for samples.  His eyes have this glint that make Shizuo's temper soar, even in high school Shinra gave Shizuo chills.  It's ironic now, Shizuo thinks, that he and Shinra understand each other on the one thing no one else seems to get: </p><p>They want Izaya back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I prefer to add tags as I go, so keep an eye on those as this updates so you know if anything you don't particularly like pops up!

He twirls it in his fingers.  His fingers feel too big – they aren’t nearly nimble enough to hold it in that gentle, Izaya-esque way that holds a sense of grace as well as power.  His wrist doesn’t flick it right, and he has to pry the blade open.  He bathes in the silence of his apartment, all the lights are off and the darkness consumes him.  Even so, the smallest flicker of light dances off the tip of the blade, and he almost sees him there – holding his hand out in waiting, with that stupid smirk he’s known so well and that snarky tone and he feels his chest constrict. 

He hears footsteps and a woman’s voice calls out to him.  “Shinra?”

“Oh, Celty! Did I wake you, love?”  He forces out the fake cheer, he wears it like a mask and revels that it’s something Izaya would pull. 

_Izaya._

Shrina’s heart seizes at the name. 

He focuses on Celty instead, the soft wave of her hair, and the innocent gaze she holds.  He can’t get used to it.  He can’t get used to it at all.  Celty with a head feels wrong, and sometimes Shinra thinks Celty fights with herself to keep it on her shoulders instead of chucking it out the window. 

Shinra wonders if the mystery is gone, now.  He used to dance around with hearts in his eyes and dream of the sweet melody that would be Celty’s voice.  He imagined it like a song so sweet and smooth it swallowed him up and held him in its embrace.  He imagined it chiming like church bells, having an angelic tone, having a sweetness that only his Celty had. 

And well, in the end, it’s really just a voice.

It cracks sometimes, and it’s not unpleasant, but it’s not anything grand. 

Celty takes careful steps towards him, “Are you thinking of him?”

Shinra’s fake smile of cheer cracks.  “Oh, Celty! Jealous, are you?”  He forces out a laugh, but it causes a physical pain in his chest.  It’s as if Shinra can feel his heart cracking and blood pooling into his lungs.  And briefly, Shinra wonders, if this is what it must have felt like to Izaya all along. 

His heart roars again. 

Celty places a shadowy hand against his shoulder and squeezes.  She penetrates his resolve and Shinra’s smile starts to falter.  He lets his head droop onto his shoulder and Celty pulls him into a hug with her other arm.  Her shadows usurp him, warm and prodding in a way so typical to Celty.  And Shinra _is_ happy.  So, so _truly_ happy. 

But yet – “It’s okay to miss him,” Celty tells him.

It’s all unfair, Shinra muses.  His whole life he fought for the love of the Dullahan before him, fought against Izaya himself for his heart.  He remembers Izaya laying lopsided on his couch, and poking fun at his magazine clippings – the one’s that claimed the 5 best ways to a woman’s heart.  He remembers digging his toes into Izaya’s stomach and feeling Izaya’s ribs vibrate against his legs in airy laughter.  He remembers Izaya’s face going pink and thinking how rude of Izaya to only _genuinely_ laugh at his expense. 

He remembers shoving half his bento at Izaya even though it’s his favorite, he remembers constantly shoving sushi down Izaya’s throat.  He remembers keeping a tight grip on the back of his uniform when Izaya stood on rooftops, he remembers the fear thumping in his heart when Izaya laughed with his head thrown back and arms out wide.  He remembers feeling the sharp wind sting his eyes and watching Izaya’s uniform jacket blow with it and squeaking out demands, “ _Come down from there!”_  

He remembers pain, and blood, and Nakura all at once. 

“He’s an asshole,” Shinra whispers against Celty’s shoulders, shuddering in the warmth of her shadows.

“But he was your friend,” 

Shinra pauses at that, pauses and thinks of middle school Izaya and then high-school Izaya and finally lands on forever-twenty-one Izaya and his dumb flick blade lodged in Shinra’s pocket. 

“He still is,” Shinra insists, as if the words will bring him back.  As if proving to a long-gone Izaya that yes, Shinra really wants him back, he’ll come prancing back into his kitchen with a fresh concussion from Shizuo and that laid-back, fake as hell smirk on his lips. 

“He’s probably alive,” Celty assures him.

Shinra loves Celty, but she won’t understand.  She still has Shizuo, she still has her best friend. 

Shinra hasn’t seen Izaya in two years, and it’s the most crushing thing he’s ever felt.  And Shinra _loves_ Celty.  He loves holding Celty against him and feeling the warm tingle of her skin under his fingertips.  He loves kissing those new lips and watching those new cheeks blush, he really, _really_ loves her. 

And yet, even if it had been Celty, Shinra thinks his heart wouldn’t have felt so broken.

“But he’s not with me.” 


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for giving the prologue so much love! Hope you like this just as much :D

Shizuo likes to find patterns in the curls of smoke that leave his lips. The first exhale swirls around for a second before it morphs into something that resembles a flick blade. 

Shizuo stamps out the cigarette angrily, uncaring of the remaining patterns it contains. 

Ikebukoro is quiet.

Shizuo doesn't like it. 

He refused to believe it the first time the thought crossed his mind. But after two years of silent cigarette breaks and smoke curling into flick blades, or computers, or fur-rimmed jackets, Shizuo grudgingly accepts that he doesn't like a quiet Ikebukoro.  

No one seems to understand it, either.

He tried to tell Kasuka but his brother held that bored look and shrugged back at him. "It's as noisy as ever."

Shizuo tried to tell him. It's not the sound of screeching cars that fills Ikebukoro with unbearable noise. It's not the sound of ringing phones or giggling high-schoolers. It's not the sound of gunshots or the purr of Shooter. It's not the sound of police sirens or any of that.  All of that is background noise to the pounding, eerie silence that has swallowed Ikebukoro. And the thing is - Shizuo doesn't know what it is. 

Shizuo can't tell Kasuka because he doesn't quite know himself. 

His brain nags the answer at him and Shizuo shuts it down every time. He tries to push the thoughts of pitch black hair and blood red eyes from his mind. Just the thoughts still make his blood boil - even after two years.  

Shizuo's level of control skyrocketed over the past two years. He only reacts when Tom calls to him and even then, he takes every insult, every jab, and only starts show the strength of _The Strongest in Ikebukoro_ when Tom gives the ok. 

People congratulate him on it. Kasuka, Tom, Celty, Shinra - everyone is so proud of him. 

Shizuo knows it's not his control that's improved. It's the lack of necessity. What good is his rage with no one to release it on? 

"Perhaps then," Kadota starts, when Shizuo tells him all of these troubles, "Izaya disappearing is good for you," 

Shizuo grunts out an affirmative yet keeps fidgeting with his sushi.  Kadota raises an eyebrow as if questioning the truth and Shizuo finds anger bubbling in his chest.  "Or not!” He snaps and bunches up a napkin in his hand.  “I don't know okay!" He pounds his fists on the table and Simon barely spares a glance at the neat, new crack in the grainy wood. 

Kadota glances towards it uneasily for just a moment, "You're right, he agrees, "Just mentioning Izaya is enough to set you off, even more than before he left."

Shizuo traces the crack with his finger and doesn't speak. Kadota asks, "Do you miss him?" 

Shizuo doesn't even budge. His eyes are fixated on the crack and he thinks of fur slipping between his fingers. He thinks of knives slicing open his skin so easily, so smoothly. He thinks of anger bubbling so deep in his chest, thinks of spitting out that name with so much rage that it invokes fear in bystanders.

But not in _him_ \- never in _him_. 

Shizuo thinks that's what he misses - if anything. Everyone around him keeps on their toes. He can hear the fear in their voices.  They always squirm under his gaze, he watches their lips tremble and they always speak to him in soft, careful voices.  Everyone is always weary of Shizuo.  

Everyone but _him_.

Even if it spread like honey on his mouth, Izaya used the same smirk on him he used with everyone. Izaya called him a monster, but Shizuo will be damned if Izaya truly believed it. 

As hard as it is to admit, Izaya truly was the only one to ever treat Shizuo as a human from the very beginning, a shitty one at that, but a human.

After a while Kadota sighs and talks again, "I do miss him a little," he admits. Shizuo raises his head and finds Kadota fidgeting with his sushi. "Never liked the guy much, not gonna lie, and I sure don't want him back.  But it's..." Kadota scrunches his nose, searching for the words. 

"Quiet?" Shizuo supplies.

Kadota chuckles, "Quiet," he agrees.  He takes a sip of his drink and nods his head towards the door. "And here comes Izaya's biggest fan."  

Shizuo turns to see Shinra and (helmet-less) Celty stroll in. Simon offers them a table, but Kadota beckons them over before they can sit.  "What's up?"

"I'm here for a date with my lovely Celty!" Shinra laughs throwing his arms around the woman before him.  Now that she has a head, Shizuo finds it funny that Celty's cheeks turn a light pink when she smacks Shinra upside the head. 

"I thought it would be nice to get out for a while to make Shinra stop his moping." She supplies. 

Kadota and Shizuo toss Shinra a glance but he whines, "Celty! I'm not moping, why would I be when I have the most beautiful woman with me?" 

Celty smacks him again, but Shizuo catches something. There's a brief flicker to Shinra's eyes before he speaks. So fleeting that it makes Shizuo wonder if that's how the flea hid his true feelings - by pushing them down so much so they become unnoticeable.  

Shinra is not Izaya though, so Shizuo catches it.  It's not sadness or grief.  Its emptiness.

It's what Shizuo's been feeling these past two years and he understands long before Celty claims that Shinra misses Izaya.  

"Oh Shizuo too," Kadota says easily.

Celty and Shinra cry out, "Shizuo?!" at the same time Shizuo angrily huffs out, "I don't!"

Kadota just chuckles and places a bit of sushi in his mouth. "Wonder where the guy even is,"

Everyone turns to Shinra and the doctor laughs.  He tries to play it off as easy-going, but Shizuo hears the crack to his voice, he sees the tremble of his lips when he speaks and most important he hears the pain in Shinra's voice. "Why would you think I'd know?" 

"He is your best friend," Shizuo says.  

Shinra smiles up at him, a genuine smile, "He is, but Orihara-kun is also a sneaky bastard.  He wouldn't even tell me if he didn't want to be found."

And then Shizuo gets it.  Kadota doesn't want Izaya back - his life is much simpler without him. And Celty - he hid her head for ages, she's the last person to want to see his face.  

That should be Shizuo. It should be Shizuo strolling the streets of Ikebukoro with his head held high and not a single thought of Izaya. It should be Shizuo letting out puffs of smoke and finding things like dolphins and kittens in the patterns - no flick blades.  It should be Shizuo laughing over memories with Celty and speaking Izaya's name with a sense of detachment. 

It's not though - Shizuo is not with Celty or Kadota.  Shizuo is with Shinra.

Shizuo doesn't want the peace - doesn't want the mundane cigarette shapes.  Shizuo wants the heart-pounding feeling of adrenaline pumping in his veins. He wants to feel the lack of solid ground beneath his shoes when he jumps from roof tops. He wants to feel fur slipping through his fingers. And he wants that airy, genuine laugh Izaya had only when he ran from him.  And it's so like Izaya - to only truly let his emotions show when he's running away from Shizuo.  

 

 

He chooses Arakawa. 

For a long time, he considers Osaka.  He considers leaving Tokyo altogether, packing up all his money and buying a house embedded deep in the country-side of Japan where no one will speak to him.  He’d waste his days staring out at the endless grassy plains, maybe get a cat, and swallow mouthfuls of the fresh, non-polluted air and never give anyone back in Bukoro a second thought.  But sadly, Orihara Izaya is a city boy, and a city boy won’t fit well in the countryside.  So, he chooses Arakawa.

His stay at the hospital lasted six months of endless, mind-numbing physical therapy.  The nurses smile at him with shimmering hope in their eyes because they don't know. None of them know, and oddly, it makes Izaya's stomach churn.  They smile at him and hold his hands when he walks, they squeeze his palms every time he takes an extra step and ruffle his hair warmly when he speaks to them.  He hears a few nurses mumbling about his attractive face and it makes him want to puke.

Izaya knows he has an attractive face, had never thought to be shy about if before. But they don't know. They don't know easy it is to analyze them, they don't know how hard he works to quiet the itch that yearns to tear them apart. None of them know how simple it would be to delve into their minds and drive out their insecurities, hold their hands as they listen to his words, sweet as syrup to their ears but disgusting and bitter in their meaning.  None of them know how easy it is for Izaya to wrap their little minds around his finger and play them like puppets.

Even in a hospital, Izaya can be top dog if he so chooses.

The thought makes him cry. 

They recommend he stay an extra month - Izaya leaves the second his legs function again. 

They praised him every day for working hard. Izaya forced himself to walk, he felt the searing pain in the balls of his feet step by agonizing step. The nurses urged him to rest, but Izaya pushed on.  They wore genuine smiles and with the disgusting reminder of how easy they’d be to manipulate brewing in the bottom of his stomach, Izaya forced himself to recover. Sitting in a hospital listening to all the gossip reminded him so much of Bukoro he strived to get out before it drove him insane.

Izaya lives for power, and Arakawa is just another district where he can get it. 

Surprisingly, he chooses not to.

Izaya walks around Arakawa a lot.  He relishes the sting of cold air on his cheeks and shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his hoody.  He finds a sushi place with some decent otoro and likes to go there on Saturday afternoons (they have a two for one sale on all menu items, and no way he can’t take advantage of that).  No one gives him a second glance, Izaya is no danger to Arakawa.  He likes to stop and pet dogs and speak with their owners, he learns a few names and tries so hard to keep it at that – just names. 

He makes friends with the old woman that vends Crepes at the foot of his apartment complex.  She’s missing her front two teeth and the rest have a rusted, yellow hue to them.  She has endless wrinkles beneath her eyes and an ugly gray color for hair, but yet, Izaya finds she has a smile that shines brighter than the sun. He likes to ask her about her day when he returns from his walks and she always gives him free food.

Izaya takes it reluctantly. Freebies from nice old women go to warm, kind people that don't ruin lives.

That is not Izaya. 

He can't say that he's the same, after two years, but he can't say that he's all that different. 

Izaya tunes out most of the gossip, but listening is in his nature. He stays out of the Arakawa yakuza, but he knows where to find them if the itch gets strong. Because Izaya _listens_. He can't train his ears to stop listening when his entire life centered on his amazing ability to do just that - _listen_. 

Izaya doesn't want to ruin lives anymore. He doesn't want to hold the wrist of a terrified teenager facing the eyes of death. He doesn’t want to watch the fear settle in someone’s heart when he digs out information so personal he can see the hope in their eyes shatter.  There's so much that he doesn't want to do, and perhaps they'd take him back like this. Perhaps if Izaya stepped back into Ikebukoro with promises of mending his ways, they'd accept him.

And yet - he can't do it. 

Sometimes Izaya goes as far as to dial out Shinra's number and hover his finger above the call button.  He imagines Shinra now - cuddled next Celty with a genuine smile on his face.  He imagines Shinra and Celty waltzing around their home, imagines Shinra whispering something into Celty's ear in a breathy whisper and he imagines her fist in his stomach and chuckles.  He can imagine her shadows curling around Shinra lovingly, and imagines them falling asleep in each other’s embrace and smiles – Shinra must be happy.

But, Izaya also imagines Shinra missing him. He imagine Shinra gazing at the phone and waiting for _Izaya_.  He imagines Shinra answering every phone call and with each passing day, watching the hope thin until it’s gone.  He imagines Shinra curling words into Celty’s shadows and they’ll read: _Where is Izaya_?  The thought makes his heart pang with hurt. It's a strange feeling and it’s foreign to him. Izaya is used to repressing emotions – that is - _was -_ his job, and now that he can feel them freely he doesn't really understand them. He can analyze them on others, he knows what a sad person needs to hear and he knows how to deflate happiness in seconds. 

But now that they're his, now that they settle in his own heart like a physical weight pushing on his chest, Izaya feels a great deal shittier for all the things he's done. 

 Izaya misses Shinra, he never expects not to. But he doesn't want Shinra to miss him. He doesn't want Shinra to feel any more pain because of him.  

And yet - Izaya never gets the guts to call. 

Sometimes Izaya sits in front of a mirror, and imagines all the things he'd say to Shinra. He'd apologize first - for all the things he's caused, all the trouble that stemmed from him.  And then he'd tease.  He'd make jabs at Shinra, tell Celty all of the horribly embarrassing things he'd do when she wasn't there. He'd watch Shinra squeak and deny, he'd watch Celty giggle and he'd even let himself have a true, genuine laugh. 

While practicing in the mirror, Izaya cries a lot.  It's not during his apology - not when he's being sincere. It's when he imagines the way Shinra will gasp and jump on him. It's when he imagines how Shinra's hands will feel against his mouth when he tries to silence him.  It’s when he almost feels the ghost of Shinra’s arms wrestling him down, and he almost feels the rush of air in his ears at Shinra’s empty threats.  It's when Izaya imagines Shinra the way Shinra should be that his heart aches and the tears flow.

Izaya practices for Shizuo, too.  When he imagines Shinra, Izaya give a deep, thorough apology.

But for Shizuo, that’s hard. 

He can't do that with Shizuo. There's so much that he's done, so many parts of Shizuo's life he's ruined that he'd be apologizing for days if he tried to make it right.  

So he finds himself practicing his name. 

For two years Izaya trains himself until _Shizu-Chan_ becomes _Shizuo_. The name sounds foreign on his tongue, it feels wrong on so many levels but he pushes himself. He says it over and over until its Shizu-Chan becomes strange.  He tries to mentally replace Shizu-Chan with Shizuo with every bone in his body.

But as hard as he tries, when Izaya truly pictures himself speaking to Shizuo earnestly, the only name that registers in his mind is Shizu-chan.

“Izaya-kun!”  The call of his name makes him jump.  He looks up and sees the old woman giggle at him and toss him an exasperated look.  “Izaya-kun needs to stop daydreaming, you’ll end up lost!” 

Izaya refrains from telling her he will never get lost.  He’s wandered around over two years to learn the back alleys of Arakawa like he knew the back alleys of Ikebukoro.  He practices jumping across roofs and slipping through cracks.  He’ll never have that same speed, and he feels the strain on his legs with every landing – but he still does it.  He still does it to prove to himself that he still _can_.  “How was your day, Takahashi-san? Anything interesting?” 

Izaya slips into the stool behind the counter – he’s basically gained a mother over the course of two years at the age of twenty-five and sometimes he wishes he could call Mairu and Kururi – the woman would do them good. 

She doesn’t hesitate to set a fresh plate of food before him, and Izaya sees a bag of bento boxes beneath the counter that she’ll undoubtedly thrust into his hands before he leaves.  He feels the churning in his stomach again and thinks of all the nasty, horrid things he knows about Takahashi-san.  And none of that came from his job, none of that information came from being an informant, all of that came from her mouth because she trusts _him_. 

It’s the most ironic thing he’s ever heard of – someone trusts _him_ with all their heart to tell him their deepest secrets. 

She tells him about a few rude customers that complained about her hair, and she tells him how she warned a few young high-schoolers about the dangers of smoking.  She laughs when she tells him they ran off at the sight of her teeth and even Izaya lets out a laugh.  “How rude of them,” Izaya smiles with his signature smirk and Takahashi rolls her eyes, “I never took you as the lecturing type,” 

“I don’t like young people wasting their days – you included,” 

Izaya stiffens in his mind, but years of repressed emotions keep him from showing it.  He forces out an airy laugh that so easily resembles his real one, it’ll fool Takahashi easily.  He wonders, though, if it would fool Shinra.  “Oh, how kind of you to worry for little old me,” He forces out a softer giggle, “But what gives you such an impression?”

“All you do is go on walks,” She reprimands, “And little odd jobs, but Izaya-kun never invites friends over, what happened to all your friends from Shinjuku?”

He doesn’t tell her Shinjuku never was his home – it was Ikebukoro.  For the first time, Izaya lets his real emotions leak.  It makes him feel raw and exposed and he feels uncertainty in his bones when he lets the sadness show.  He feels a warm hand squeeze his shoulder and Izaya has to physically stop himself from putting his mask back on.  “They wouldn’t want to see me, I’ve done some bad things.”  He answers honestly.  The words taste bad in his mouth, and years of hoarding information make his brain scream at him for giving any away.

The warm smile she gives him settles his fears – only slightly, but enough.  “Have you tried to talk to them?”

“No,” Izaya sighs.  “They’d forgive me, I know that.  I just don’t know if I want them to,” 

Takahashi tosses him a pitiful look and the thought of her pitying him makes food crawl back up his throat.  “Izaya-kun is too hard on himself,”

He smiles sadly, “Believe me, with the things I’ve done, I could never be too hard on myself,”

 

 

Shizuo wakes up with terror seizing his heart.  He feels his body trembling and the blood in his ears make it sound like his heart pounds mercilessly against his ribcage.  It takes Shizuo a few minutes to ease his tightened grip on his sheets and it takes him a few more to take in a deep breath of air, and stop his trembling. 

The nightmares are never easy. 

It all feels so realistic in his dreams, he can almost feel the soft skin of Izaya’s neck under his grip.  He can feel the bones shifting under his palm and pulse pounding against his hands. He can hear Izaya’s breathy gasps, feel his nails clawing into his palms and he can feel the sting on his own hands.  Shizuo feels the bones in Izaya’s neck crush in his grasp and feels true terror at the crumpled figure that lays at his feet.  The crimson eyes stare back at him, hollow and lifeless.  The body lays there, unmoving and lifeless and Shizuo wakes up. 

He used to wake with a scream.  He used to stare at his hands and cry, he could still feel the ghost of skin on his palms as if it all happened for real.  As if Shizuo truly killed Izaya and suffered nightmares because of it.  Shizuo hates violence, yet he dreams of crushing a human life every few weeks or so.  

Over the years, he’s gotten used to it.  He can only waste so many tears on Izaya.  Shizuo decides to warm a glass of milk before he settles down on the couch for a while.  He used to turn on the TV, when they first started happening, but he decided he liked staring out his window better. 

He likes watching the flashing lights of the city, and if he opens it, he can hear the purr of car engines.  Ikebukoro never sleeps, and although an eerie silence settles with the lack of Izaya, she still never sleeps.  Shizuo finds comfort in that, when the nightmares keep him awake, he finds solace in the city he calls home keeping him company. 

However, it seems Ikebukoro is not the only one intent on keeping Shizuo company for the night. 

At first, he’s surprised at the sound of his phone ringing.  People rarely call him in general, although Celty does a lot now, with a head she much prefers talking – probably due to years of lacking the ability.   Shizuo spares a glance at his phone – the caller is not Celty. 

 _Shinra_.  The name blinks on his phone and Shizuo lazily takes another sip of milk.  He wonders briefly, if he should even bother, he could easily play the ‘I-was-asleep’ card, it _is_ close to three.  But yet, against better judgement, Shizuo answers the phone with a gruff greeting. 

Shinra doesn’t offer a hello back, and that’s strange.  Shinra is not Izaya, yet they are similar.  Shinra pours out cheerfulness in everything he does, and sometimes his emotions are clear, and he is no manipulator, but that fake cheer is linked to Shinra in the same way it is linked to Izaya.  So, Shizuo starts to feel uneasy already when Shinra speaks with a serious tone. “I got a job offer today.”

Shizuo almost asks why he should care.  But something gnaws at the back of his mind, something settles in his heart that makes him ask, “What is it?” 

Shinra stays quiet and Shizuo finds himself picking at a hole in his couch, pulling at the seam and slowly pulling out the stuffing.  They stay like that for a while, Shizuo focuses on the city lights and the purring cars and waits.

Shinra speaks again, “I was wondering if you want to help.” 

“Do you want my help?” Shizuo counters, noting that Shinra still hasn’t answered his question. 

“It’s not that I want it,” Shinra begins, and his voice still holds that unsettling seriousness to it, “I think you’d like to be a part of it, though.” 

Shizuo sighs and runs a hand through his hair.   He catches his reflection in the mirror, he’ll have to die the roots again, soon.  Shizuo doesn’t speak for a while, and Shinra waits for him.  Shizuo already has a hunch, and his heart jumps at it.  Shizuo takes a deep breath, “What is it?”

Shinra doesn’t hesitate this time.

“To find Orihara Izaya.” 


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for all the Kudos, never expected this to get so much already!!

Two peaceful years pass for Sonohara Anri.  Saika thrums in her blood but it lays dormant, and for a simple girl like herself, that is enough. 

Anri visits Mikado on the weekends and wears that soft smile, she watches his cheeks turn pink and he always has a sweet for her.  They visit a coffee shop together, this dainty little place that Shizuo frequents a lot too.  Sometimes Mikado brushes his fingers against hers and even though love stays a strange concept, Anri likes the feel of his fingers intertwined in hers.  They’re much bigger, much warmer and she doesn’t understand love, but she understands happiness. 

Sometimes Saki takes her shopping, although she doesn’t buy much, Saki likes squeezing her into tight-fitting skirts and tops.  She likes watching Anri’s cheeks heat up at mentions of Mikado and she always tries to sneak a few extra _revealing_ things (Anri always catches her, but sometimes pretends she doesn’t if only to see the smile she wears that lights up the sky, Anri likes making Saki smile). 

Masaomi never really drops his antics.  Even when Saki links his arm in hers, he still does that suggestive wiggle of eyebrows and Saki doesn’t mind.  She doesn’t seem the least bit jealous, laughs at it even, and Anri feels her heart swell.  Saki trusts Masaomi, that much is clear, but Saki trusts Anri too and that makes her heart swell.

All in all, Anri enjoys the peace in Ikebukuro.  The quiet stings in her ears, but Anri never liked Izaya, and the peace that comes from his absence only fuels the happiness in her heart.

So, after two years, when she feels the pulse in her veins, feels her blood thicken and the blade itch to break free, she gets scared. 

When she hears Saika chant her typical chant of love, Anri’s heart clenches. 

Something is wrong. 

 

 

Shizuo sips his milk carefully and watches Shinra blow gently on his coffee.  Neither speak and the vein in Shizuo’s forehead starts to pulse.   Shinra takes a careful sip, lets the steam curl into his face and fog up his glasses before he sets the mug down with a soft clink.  “Did you know Izaya hates sweet things?”  He mumbles idly, Shinra tosses a soft gaze out the window and Shizuo feels his temper simmer – Shinra really does miss the flea, more than any of them. 

“Izaya hates a lot of things,” Shizuo says after a lot of thought.  He bitterly reminds himself that he is one of those things – probably more now after the incident.  “Who asked you to find him?”

Shinra gives him that fake, cheery laugh that makes Shizuo’s blood boil.  “Who knows? Awakusu-Kai? A color gang? You’re guess is as good as mine!”  He laughs cheerily, “All I know is someone wants me to find Izaya, and that’s enough for me to do it.” 

Shizuo snorts, and feels his nails piercing the table, he never liked the feeling of grainy wood getting under his nails – it’s rather uncomfortable.  But the easy going smile on Shinra’s smug face makes him forget that momentarily, “Shinra, you can’t be serious.”

“I won’t tell them where he is,” Shinra snorts, “I’d never do that.” He adds softly, so softly that Shizuo strains his ears to hear it.  He sees the remnants of pain and longing hidden in Shinra’s expression and it makes him loosen his grip. 

“You seem confident that you can find him,” Shizuo says, taking another sip of his milk.  “If you’re so sure you can track him down, why haven’t you done it before?”

Shinra flinches slightly and a frown falls on his face.  He answers Shizuo with a question of his own, “What is it you miss about Izaya?”

Shizuo stops with his milk halfway to his face.  He lowers it back down and thinks.  He can’t come up with anything thought-provoking and deep.  He and Izaya _weren’t_ friends, ever.  The fact of the matter is, there is nothing for Shizuo to miss, nothing for him to yearn for.  All he ever received from Izaya were sly smirks and snarky laughs.  He received scars and pain, lost jobs and disappointed faces. 

But even so, “I don’t…know.”  Shizuo says honestly.  Shinra raises an eyebrow and Shizuo continues, “Bukoro is quiet without him and I…I don’t think I really need a reason,”

Shizuo says the words with confidence.  He never needs a reason.  His anger rolls out of him like waves, pulses through his veins until he sees red and crushes everything that brushes against his hands – always for Izaya.   Shizuo crushes metal in his bare hands, rips street signs and vending machines and watches them fly.   He aims for that smirk, that gross tilt of lips that makes his rage skyrocket and his ears ring – it’s always Izaya.

For all of these things, Shizuo has no reason, and he thinks it’s like that for Izaya too.  Perhaps saying he misses Izaya doesn’t quite cut it – not the way Shinra does.  He doesn’t long to see his face or hear his voice in quite the same way.  But even so, Shizuo never had a reason to hating Izaya, never had a reason to grunting _‘You piss me off!’_ at him all those days ago in Raijin.  Like his temper, like his strength, Shizuo doesn’t have a reason for the things he does with Izaya – this is not different. 

Shinra smiles at him softly, “Okay,”

Shizuo downs the rest of his milk and smashes the container against the table (the plastic gives in and there’s a small dent in the table.  This time though, it’s not anger, not rage, but raw determination that fuels his strength – and how fitting that is - his strength is at its strongest always when Izaya is involved.)  “So, where do we start?”

“I wish I knew,” Shinra mumbles.  He tosses a glance at the window and watches the people pass.  He watches them skip by, hand-in-hand.   They smile, and whisper at each other, so many secrets fall from their lips, so many disgusting, ugly things hidden underneath painted smiles and warm eyes.  Izaya claimed to love humans – but Shinra always wondered how far until the line for love and hate became a blur.  He wonders, if the answer lies there, somewhere in those ugly smiles and fake laughs – he wonders if Izaya hides in them.   He tears his eyes from the window to catch Shizuo looking at him wearily, “He won’t have left Tokyo,” he says, “Izaya couldn’t stand leaving Tokyo.”

“So you think he’s terrorizing some other district?” Shizuo snorts. 

Shinra pauses.  He mulls over the idea – of Izaya skipping around somewhere.  Maybe Shibuya, maybe Kita – he thinks of all the other human-filled districts Izaya can choose.  He thinks of that smirk, so sly and smooth and that sing-song tone that he loves to use.  He thinks of those gold rings that flash in the sunlight and his slit-like eyes and he imagines someone bigger, stronger, holding Izaya at gunpoint.  They will tremble nu Izaya will hold control.  Izaya _always_ has control. 

But – “I think he’s living in one,” Shinra whispers. 

His words hang in the air, so thick a flick-blade could slice through them – the flick blade jostling around somewhere in his pocket.  Shinra thinks Shizuo won’t believe him – who would?  Who would ever believe the great Orihara Izaya would keep a low profile? Who’d believe that Izaya is roaming around the streets of Tokyo unnoticed and silent, wasting the rest of his days in lonely solicitude? 

Shinra’s heart wrenches at that – Izaya never took well to being lonely, as much as the idiot will deny it.  He imagines Izaya slurping instant Ramen with a sour look, imagines him tossing bins of expired milk.  He’ll forget and call out to Namie, and the ring of a silent apartment will call back to him mockingly.  Izaya will sink, half-eaten Ramen forgotten and he’ll let himself sink lower and lower until the loneliness consumes him.  And Izaya not once will call for him, not once will call for anyone, because Izaya never does things that show weakness.  It’s always been Shinra’s job to pick up on things like that. 

Shinra just wants to do his job.

“Yea,” Shizuo says softly, warmly.   A smile falls on his lips and his yellow hair falls in his eyes so Shinra can’t see the expression in his eyes.  But the warmth in his voice speaks enough, and Shinra feels relieved someone shares his sentiment. “He’s probably living a normal life for the first time, that stupid louse.”

 

 

Celty doesn’t think of Izaya often.  He crosses her mind most when she comes and finds Shinra curled by the window, with a fresh mug of coffee and tired eyes.  She links him to tired smiles and fake cheer that Shinra wears so well – he’s learned that from the best, after all.   Celty rarely thinks of Izaya without Shinra, she barely remembers his face.   

For a while, Celty thinks that it’s better without Izaya.  Ikebukuro thrives in the quiet, and although the underground loses a valuable informant, it only stumbles slightly before standing again.  Izaya knew the game that all the Yakuza play.  And as her bike roars to life and the wind whips at her helmet, Celty realizes she plays too.  Shinra plays with each new client – with the blood stains that now decorate their carpet and that cheery, creepy smile.   Shizuo plays with Tom, every client he threatens, every glare he gives – it’s all a part of it.   Even Mikado plays, and that makes Celty shudder, that Mikado starts so young – Kida even younger and Anri who wishes for a peaceful life gets pulled into it all. 

And they all blame Izaya, all claim he rounds them up, pits them against each other with a mix of sweet and ugly words and watches them fight for the death.  In a way, he does, Celty knows that.  The head that rests on her shoulders, the brown hair that tickles her neck and the eyes that can finally _see_ prove that.  Yet even so, Izaya is as much as a player as the rest of them. 

Shooter rumbles and purrs and Celty revs the engine.  She realizes then, Izaya is as much a player as the rest of them.   And if Izaya is not the ring leader, the game is not over. 

The thought makes her shudder, and Shooter whines beneath her.  He senses the apprehension, and Celty suddenly feels the pressing urge to find _Izaya_. 

 She blames it on the delivery, a tight brown box tucked against her stomach.  It’s off to some apartment in Shinjuku and Celty takes it.  Usually she refuses outgoing orders like this, she keeps to herself here in Ikebukuro and likes it best this way, it’s as peaceful of a life they can have.  Yet the tired weariness in Shinra’s eyes, the smile cracking at the edges, make her accept it. 

Celty doesn’t expect to run into Izaya so easily.  That’s wishful thinking – she knows that.  But she wishes to catch a familiar face, maybe Mairu, maybe Namie, anyone at all. 

Celty realizes all too soon that when people say ‘ _be careful what you wish for!’_ it’s a warning for even the simple things. 

The transporter screeches to a stop at the printed address and waits.   Celty still refuses to speak, only so many know of the truth behind the black biker, and they all mutually decide it best stays that way.  So she whips out her PDA and types quickly, ’You’re _prize arrives,’._ Clients ask her to speak in codes sometimes, things like that are common when you swing knives and deal drugs for a living – it’s not new to Celty. 

Usually however, the codes have a level of discreetness, something strange and whacky and Celty used to tell Shinra about the funnier ones at the end of the day.  Izaya always had the best ones – and Celty suspects he did it for her, in a twisted way, to make her day a little more interesting, or to perhaps make sure that she thought of him. 

The plainness of the words make an uneasy feeling twist in her gut.  Shooter displays apprehension as well, she turns the engine off – but he revs it back up in seconds.   Celty tries again and he does it again until she decides to leave it.

A gruff man saddles up to them with a cigar hanging from his mouth.  The sides of his head are shaved and he wears large, thick sunglasses.  They aren’t thin and wired like the ones Shizuo wears – but so big and thick that they cover half his face, it would make it difficult to pick him in the crowd and the warning bells in Celty’s head go off.   She thrusts the PDA towards him and starts to do the same with the package but the man stops her. 

“Not me,” He says.  His voice gives no emotion, has no tone, and Celty yearns for Izaya for the first time in her life without Shinra.  She yearns for his talent, yearns for his laugh, yearns for him to jump out of an alley crying ‘ _got you!_ ’ as he usually does when real fear starts to climb into Celty’s mind.  “Follow,” the man calls to her.

Shooter screams for her to stop, but Celty dismounts him reluctantly and follows him into an alley with a firm grasp on the package and an even firmer grasp on the scythe laced into her shadows.  Celty smells the stench of blood, she knows it well because of all the people that have stumbled into her apartment.  It’s not a strange scent to her anymore, but she finds a trail of it.  Celty usually ignores these things, keeps her involvement in the minimal to protect herself and to protect Shinra. 

She finds herself following the trail, though, until she stops dead in her tracks. 

The man stops with her, and all he says is, “We had the wrong girl, you see.”

Harima Mika lies mangled on the cold floor.  A pool of blood still spills from her side, it’s a small trickle, like a leaky fountain more than a dead body.  Her skin looks pale and yellowed and in some places skin peels away to reveal white patches of protruding bone and Celty feels the very human urge to puke.  The scent of Mika’s blood is thick in the alley and Celty feels her head spin with final realization. 

Her head is gone.

Mika’s head is _gone_.

Celty thinks of Seiji, Seiji who looked into her eyes day and night with nothing but pure, unrestricted love. She remembers the way Mika clung to him, nuzzled a head that looked like the one on her neck into his chest and relished the warmth of his arms.  Taking Mika away from Seiji should not have been easy, and that makes everything more unsettling. 

Celty’s mind runs a mile a minute.  She connects Mika to Seiji.  Seiji to Yagiri Pharmaceuticals.  Yagiri Pharmaceuticals to Namie.  Namie to…

_Izaya._

Celty erases the message on her PDA, and despite years of typing, despite years of powering through stressful situations, her fingers tremble when she types.  _Where is Izaya?_  

The man pushes the PDA aside, doesn’t spare it a glance and Celty urgently tries to shove it under his nose.  But someone stops her, “Please, Celty-san, he’s only a worker, he’s not the one you should speak to,”

The man steps aside and Celty sees a child. 

He looks no more than seven, and wears the uniform to Raira elementary.  Celty vaguely thinks if she ever has children, they will _never_ go to any school of Raira.  The boy smirks, a smirk that twists on his face and makes his chubby, innocent cheeks gleam with a look of evil.   It’s a smirk that reminds her so violently of Izaya that her head screams.  “No need to be so afraid.” 

The boy speaks like an adult, speaks like a man of thirty with underlings and snipers stationed on the roof.  Celty fears looking up to check, fears making the smallest movement and the grip on the scythe in her shadows tightens.  She thrusts the PDA to him and the boy scans it quickly and the replaces the smirk with a frown.  “He is not important yet, would you follow me, please?” 

Celty takes a step back instead, calculates the amount of time it will take her to make a bee-line for shooter and the amount of time it will take her to speed back to her apartment.  She considers a route to lose them and mentally thanks Izaya for all his stupid needs, ones that took her all over city so she knows the routes well. 

“Ah, I was afraid of this.”  The boy pouts. “I suppose Saika was needed after all,” 

Celty doesn’t hesitate.  The cool metal of her scythe presses against the palm of her hand just at the memory of the blade.  The boy laughs, loud and boisterous and it sounds every bit as evil and gross as Izaya’s – but worse, and it comes from a little child.  Celty tightens the grip on her weapon and swings it so the tip lays at his neck.  

She still doesn’t speak, Celty realizes her biggest weapon lies at the base of her neck.  “Ah, what a shame,” the child clicks his tongue. 

His eyes, previously a shade of dirt brown and incredibly hollow, change to a crisp red.  They glow with a new light, a new fervor and Celty feels fear course through her veins when he removes the hilt of a blade that protrudes from his palm.  Celty makes to slice at his neck to disconnect _his_ head before he can disconnect hers.

But, her blade is stopped.  The man from before holds out his palm, and blood joins the shadows that leak from the tip of Celty’s scythe.  When the man speaks, his eyes don’t glow red, he does so with no influence, “You will not hurt the young master.” 

Arms grab her from behind and Celty kicks violently when fingers undo the base of her helmet.  She strings out shadows tries to wrap them around necks and does her best to strangle them with sheer will.  “Sorry, Celty-san, I hope you don’t mind.” 

The blade touches her neck and Celty only wishes she had the voice to scream before it slices.  Shadows leak from the cut as if they were blood, as if Celty’s unhuman body yearns for the humanity as well.   Celty already feels the disconnection forming, feels the shadows springing from her neck to replace the half-connected head and thrashes harder.    With her head leaving her again, her vision blurs and she can’t control her shadows as cleanly as she wants and Celty feels fear gripping her heart. 

She doesn’t care, really, about her head.  The memories in there are not the important ones to her anymore.  The memories she’ll keep live down in Ikebukuro and wears a surgical mask all day, he has goofy faces and hair that falls into his eyes and is long over-due for a new pair of glasses.  She’ll keep the memories of bleached blonde hair and the strong scent of cigarettes that fill her nose on nights when Shizuo releases all the frustration pent up in his heart.  She’ll keep the memories of sly smirks and crimson red eyes, of catching falling teenagers and hefty pay and she should be surprise she even wants those – the tainted memories of Izaya that ultimately caused more pain than good.  Celty realizes though, if it’s not Izaya in possession of her head, she feels a whole new level of fear. 

They leave her there, the shadows leaking from her neck like a trail of blood.  The boy giggles, “It’s a shame about that other girl, though.” 

Alongside Mika’s dead body, Celty cries.   She wraps her arms around her body and cries and finds it unsettling that she can still smell the smell of a rotting corpse and taste iron in the air even when she no longer has a nose or a mouth.

It takes Celty a long time to compose herself and return to Shooter, and takes her even longer to drive home and fall into the comfort of Shinra’s arms.   To feel him remove the helmet, to hear it clatter to the ground despite having no ears, to see the fear settle in his heart despite having no eyes, and to feel the ghost of his breath against her face as if it were still there when he whispers:

“It’s gone.”

 

 

When his laptop buzzes, Izaya stares at it for a long time, long enough that his fingers begin to shake.  For a second, he feels a lump in the back of his throat but he forces it down.  Izaya will _not_ cry.  He wants to ignore it, considers trashing his laptop and buying a new one.  He knows, though, Tsukumoya always has a way to track him down, and he can run from the whole world, but he can’t run from him.  

With shaky fingers, Izaya hits accept.

 

**_Orihara Izaya Reborn!_ **

****

**_Tsukumoya Shinichi:_**  My, my! I have to say this is quite the surprise.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya_ :**  As annoying as ever, aren’t we? You invited me.

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** Do you accept every invite you receive, Orihara-san?

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya_ :**  Get to the point, I am a busy man.

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** I see.  Does this mean Arakawa is treating you well? I suggest you try out this lovely little food vender, sells the most delicious Crepes you know.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were threatening me.

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** What is it that you know that proves to you I’m not?

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_**  You aren’t me.

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** You are correct in that.  I do not mean to be a threat to Orihara-san, I simply wanted to have a chat, am I not allowed to reconcile with an old friend? It has been a while, you know.  Kishitani-san misses you a lot.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** We are not old friends, I don’t have friends.

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** Such a lonely life you must live, then!

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** What do you want Tsukumoya?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_**  To provide a warning, so to speak.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** Warning me? I thought you enjoyed making me run around playing your little games.  Giving me a warning is a bit counterproductive, wouldn’t you say?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** Ah but you have always been a pawn for me, a useful pawn that I don’t feel keen on losing.  I’m sure you understand that sentiment well.  There are many people that seem to be after your head, Orihara-san.  Although, yours will not come off so cleanly.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya_ :  **Celty’s head is gone.

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** Such a good guesser! Yes, the Dullahan’s head was stolen, and is it not fearful to know it was not you?

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya_ :**  I suppose you won’t tell me easily if I ask who did it, will you?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** I am not one to give answers away to you, after all it is much more fun enjoy the game while it is being played then to watch it being won so easily.  However, in this case, I do not know myself.  I would like to provide a second warning, however.  Perhaps for more personal reasons. 

****

**_Orihara Izaya_ : **And that would be?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_  **They’re looking for you.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** Shinra and Celty?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** Kishitani-san and Heiwajima-san, I mean.  I hear Kishitani-san has been contracted to search for you by some people.  Ah, but what _those_ people want with you is a plot for Orihara-san to figure out on his own!  Though, I feel you deserve to know you are being sought out.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** Shizuo?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_** Orihara-san has really grown! He doesn’t even refer to Heiwajima-san as Shizu-chan, Arakawa truly has done you well, although I see it is always Heiwajima-san you choose to be concerned with.

 

 ** _Orihara Izaya:_** He does want me dead, wouldn’t you find that the most concerning aspect, too?

 

 ** _Tsukumoya Shinichi:_**  Ah, have you not heard?  He has forgiven you.

 

**_Orihara Izaya, confirmed dead!_ **

 

 


	4. Chapter 3

Mairu drops the phone when he calls.  Izaya chuckles at the sound of her breathless voice,  _"Can't you just die? I want to meet Yuuhei!"_  
  
Izaya hears her voice crack, hears the slight shudder of her breath and he suspects she holds a hand against her mouth to silence the soft gasp she releases initially.  If he didn't know any better he'd say Mairu fights back tears.  "Nice to know you missed me," he smirks lightly.  
  
_"I didn't!"_   It's not said in her typical squawk - not with a light, sing-songy lilt that is typical of Mairu. Her voice betrays her - soft and broken and Izaya hears the soft sobs against the palm of her hand and he feels a lump in the back of his throat.  He feels his hands tremble and almost hangs up due to inability to deal with the overwhelming feeling of emotion crawling up his throat.  
  
Izaya forces it down, and decides to get to business.  "I need a place to stay."  
  
Mairu goes still on the line and Izaya briefly thinks she'll reject him. That he'll have to find some apartment in Shinjuku again because even his sisters can't deal with him.  But instead, Mairu's voice drips with such raw hopefulness – that floors him _.  "You're coming back?"  
  
_ Izaya doesn't know how to respond to her sincerity.   Kururi usually displays that.  It’s often Kururi that curls her fingers into his and though her words are few, her actions are many.   Mairu hides behind masks much like Izaya himself.  She pushes emotions down and stands tall.  To listen to her crumbling, all because of him, makes the guilt eat at him. "Yea," he mumbles.  
  
_"Forever?"_  She whispers.  
  
Izaya swallows.  He starts to remember the cool sting of Ikebukuro's harsh winds on his cheeks.  He thinks how easily he could vacate the apartment - how quickly he could simply pack his bags and leave. Arakawa holds nothing for him - except Takahashi-San and her gifts, but Izaya enjoys walking anyway, he can stop by to visit.  He holds all this on his tongue because beneath it all he remembers all he's done.  Remembers every life he's ruined, every family he's destroyed and he feels nauseous.  
  
He doesn't have the heart to crush his sister's hope so easily though, so he answers with a soft, "I don't know."

 

Mairu does not speak for a long time.  Izaya listens silently – to the sharp breaths and the small hiss she releases every time a sob gets too loud.  Izaya knows Mairu hides, she’s his sister after all, but he can’t help but take a shaky breath.  “I can…try.”

 

 _“We miss you,”_  Mairu whimpers and Izaya starts to shake.  Mairu starts to let  the crack in her voice show, she starts to slur her words together and Izaya bets she can taste salty tears running down her cheeks and his stomach twists.   _“You left for so long,”_ Mairu chokes.   _“We thought…”_

Izaya takes in a breath so sharp Mairu pauses.  The line goes dead silent, as if she waits to hear it again.  She does, Izaya guesses, she waits for him to crack.  They all do probably; wait for Izaya to give them some semblance that beneath the sly smiles and snake eyes a human lives.  A human with tears to cry for them, a human with smiles to give them, and Izaya feels it right now.   He feels the human need for tears slithering up his throat and he tries to swallow it down.   

 

“I’m sorry,” He says after a while.  He waits for his voice to even out before he speaks.  He waits for the lump to slide back down.   He can’t give them that hope – he doesn’t deserve the love they’ll give him.  He doesn’t deserve any of it.  But above all that, Izaya fears what he can do.  The itch to destroy tugs at his veins and simmers beneath his skin, the information swirls in his head and it makes it difficult to sleep at night.

 

The knowledge that he can still destroy anyone he so chooses is a daunting burden. 

 

 _“Why now?”_  Mairu asks. 

 

“Someone seems to be looking for me,” Izaya feels the tug of a familiar smirk pulling at his lips, “Figured I’d make it easier to give them what they want,”

 

 _“Iza-nii is an idiot!”_ A bit of Mairu’s normal voice seeps through and Izaya feels grateful for it.  He can’t deal with a sad Mairu, it makes guilt claw at his stomach.   _“I bet they want you to do some kind of sexy role-play.  I got it, they’re going to dress Iza-nii up as a maid and then they’ll make you put on a thong –“_

Izaya snorts, “As vulgar as always, but I doubt that is what they want with me,” Mairu starts to protest but Izaya cuts her off.  “If you haven’t heard by now, I’ll tell you – Celty’s head is gone.” 

 

He stuns Mairu into silence.   _“What?”_

 

“Exactly.  And I have the right mind to believe whoever has that transporter’s head is the same people who want me.”  Izaya pieces things together.  He reasons that he himself wanted the Dullahan’s head for so long, and if anyone wanted knowledge on it, who better to seek out than himself?  Celty will give them nothing – would rather die than reveal the deepest secrets hidden in her head.  

 

But Izaya?  Izaya is a first-class asshole and the world knows it.  He suspects the people looking for him need that knowledge, need help discerning myth from fact and need Izaya to help them. 

 

Well, if they think he’ll give out information that’s taken years for him to acquire, they have another thing coming.  “So, a place to stay?”  

 

 _“I’ll get your room ready_ ,” Mairu says, and Izaya still hears the small bit of warmth in her voice. 

 

“Great, I’ll be seeing you soon then.  Keep this on the down low, will you? From Shinra and everyone.”  Izaya stumbles over the name, but continues on as if it means nothing.  As if it’s an easy word to tumble from his mouth, he pretends that the name does nothing.  Doesn’t make emotion swirl deep in his bones and doesn’t make his heart seize – it means nothing to him. 

 

 _“I won’t.”_ Mairu sighs,  _“But he forgives you – and us too.  We just – want you back.”_

 

“Mairu – “Izaya almost starts to poor his heart out; explain why they  _shouldn’t_ want him back.  Why the power thrumming through his veins is so much more powerful than anything even Shizuo has. 

 

But then, another voice speaks.  Much softer and quieter, and though it only speaks three words, it makes Izaya slam the phone down so fast it seems as if he burns himself. 

 

_“Welcome home, brother.”_

 

 

“How many letters?” 

 

“Six,” 

 

“To the addresses listed?” 

 

“Send an extra to the Orihara house,”

 

“Will he be there?”

 

“He will.”

 

“How do you know?  He’s a sly one, he could have seen through it all by now,”

 

“Yes, but he is human after all, and humans care,”

 

“He hasn’t before,”

 

“He will now.”

 

 

 

Masaomi looks visibly uncomfortable.   

 

Shinra wears his creepy smile and shadows leak out of Celty’s neck, Shizuo clenches and unclenches his fist several times and that alone is enough to keep Masaomi on his toes; he casually glances to the door and wonders how many seconds it will take him to bolt if he catches Shizuo’s dangling cigarette snap.  Nobody speaks, and they sit in a shrouding silence so thick Masaomi feels the need to speak clawing at his throat.  But yet, if Masomi has (regrettably) learned anything from Izaya, it’s that silence serves as a weapon in the unknown.

 

It’s Shizuo who unsurprisingly breaks it with his gruff voice, “You were Izaya’s lackey,”

 

Masaomi frowns at the title.  The name causes unwanted memories to surface and he has to squeeze the phone in his pocket to keep anger from bubbling out.  He reminds himself Mikado texted him this morning, an alive Mikado asking him what type of convenience store Ramen he wants.   He pushes down memories of Mikado with a gun pressed against his forehead and tears streaming down his face and ignores the taste of bile rising in his throat.  He doesn’t even  _begin_ to think of Saki – he’ll storm out the door in seconds if that bastard even dares say her name again. 

 

“I  _was_ ,” He spits. 

 

Shizuo looks angry for a second, but his look quickly changes to pitiful.  Masaomi sees the warm tones under brown eyes and he supposes that’s fair.  Most people would feel sorry for him when they found out he was Izaya’s errand boy, anyway. 

 

Shinra speaks next, and his chirpy, happy tone makes Masaomi sick.  “When was the last time you spoke with Orihara-kun?” 

 

He shifts in his seat, “Before…” he tosses Shizuo a glance, and watches him lower his gaze.  If Masaomi looks carefully, he sees guilt swimming to the surface.  And Masaomi may hate Izaya more than Shizuo, for all that the bastard has done to him, but he still feels good seeing Shizuo regret it.  “Before that,” he finishes lamely and takes a careful sip from his coffee.   “Shizuo-san probably saw him last,”

 

 _Has he not contacted you? What about Namie?_  Celty holds out her PDA and Masaomi feels bad for her, in a way.  The head no longer sits on her shoulders and he briefly wonders if it’s in Izaya’s hands again.   But for some strange reason, he has the smallest bit of faith in the guy. 

Masaomi wrinkles his nose, “I don’t know who that is –“he admits, “I stopped running after Izaya ages ago,” 

 

Shinra laughs, and the sly smile painted on his face is so reminiscent of Izaya that Masaomi feels his stomach flutter in irritation.  “No one just stops ‘running after’ Izaya,” Masaomi tenses. 

 

“I did.” He snarls, “Izaya’s a dangerous man who plays dangerous games, I’m not about that shit anymore.” 

 

Shizuo snorts, and it’s the first sign of listening he’s given Masaomi since the beginning.  “No one knows that better than me, kid.”  Masaomi bristles at that.  “Tell me where he is.”

 

Masaomi narrows his eyes, “I would if I knew, no one wants that man dead more than I do, Shizuo-san.” 

 

Masaomi doesn’t even get to squeak. 

 

His chair clatters to the floor and Shizuo’s iron grip on the collar of his hoodie make him whimper.  Masaomi wriggles his legs, desperately searching for solid ground.  It’s the fear in his eyes that make Shizuo drop him, unceremoniously, so his ass hits the ground and he feels the sting climb up his spine.  Shizuo still looks angry, brown eyes almost tinged red with rage.  He opens his mouth to speak and closes it sharply. 

 

Masaomi doesn’t say anything and slowly takes the gentle hand Celty holds out to him.  Despite the fear, and despite feeling the ghost of the blonde’s fists still curled into his jacket Masaomi voices the unsettling question on his mind since the beginning of this.  “Why are you looking so hard, shouldn’t you be the one who wants him gone more than me?”

 

Even Shinra gives Shizuo a questioning look.  He doesn’t answer, only pops a new cigarette into his mouth and lights it slowly.  Masaomi watches his eyes, they trace patterns in the smoke that curls out, and the smoke curls into a gentle smile on his lips.  “Ikebukuro is pretty quiet without his slimy ass to chase,”  Shizuo grumbles.

 

Celty shoves the PDA in his face before Masaomi gets the chance to voice how stupid that sounds.   _If you truly don’t know, then you should leave._

 

He doesn’t hesitate at that, and storms out of their apartment faster than Shizuo could have thrown him.  His anger shines through the strength of his stomping feet, but he probably looks like an angry little brat in front of them.  Masaomi huffs like that for about five blocks, but the strangeness of the situation knots around in his head until he just can’t stop himself anymore.  He slips his phone out and dials the first number on speed dial. 

 

Mikado doesn’t even wait until the second ring.   _“How was it?”_

It takes Masaomi a lot of time to answer, but Mikado waits.  Mikado always waits for him with patient smiles and bright eyes.  Even when they were young all Masaomi had to do was dance out a little spin and cry out  _‘Just wait!’_ and Mikado would dutifully do just that.  His heart flutters at that, and he couldn’t be more thankful that no matter what happens, Masaomi will always have Mikado to wait.  “They want to find him,” 

 

Mikado mulls over that for a while.   _“Izaya-san?”_

Kida absent-mindedly twirls the string of his hoodie around his fingers and ignores the sinking feeling in his gut.  “Yea,” 

 

 _“Oh.”_ He hears Mikado shift and take in a sharp breath, he hears the underlying nervousness laced with fear and Masaomi all of a sudden feels the pressing urge to crush Izaya’s throat.   _“That’s okay, Masaomi, if it’s me that you’re worried about it’s okay.”_

Masaomi scoffs.  “It’s far from okay!  Did you forget what he did to  _you?_ Do you know what happened to Saki because of him?”  Masaomi feels his blood boiling and his grip on the phone tightens.  “The bastard deserves worse than death,”

 

Mikado shifts again, but the sharp breath he takes radiates determination.  Determination is such a rare sight in Mikado that Masaomi stumbles a bit.   _“He’s getting that, then.  But he doesn’t deserve it forever.”_ There’s so much strength oozing out of just his voice that Masaomi holds back a shudder.  Mikado is nothing short of a powerful person. It’s times like these Masaomi remembers that his baby of a best friend led an entire gang, and though Izaya manipulated him with sweet words and false promises – all of this still started with Mikado’s capability.

 

 Masaomi runs a hand through his hair and lets out deep sigh.  He lets it reverberate in his chest and allows the rush of air to soothe his nerves.  “You’re okay with this?  Even after everything that’s happened?”  He asks softly.

 

Mikado hums in agreement.  _“There’s something not right here.”_ Masaomi can imagine Mikado wrinkling his nose deep in thought and the thought makes him smile. _“Don’t you feel it? Something’s going on.”_

 

Masaomi admits to the uneasy chill down his back.  He keeps a wary eye on the streets and keeps a blade pressed against his palm at all times.  He prays he won’t need to use it, but the weight of its presence comforts him.  “Something definitely feels off…which is even more reason to keep that bastard out.”

 

Mikado disagrees with another soft hum.  _“That’s why we need him back,”_ Mikado sighs and Masaomi pictures his eyebrows drawn together and a soft frown painting his lips.  He picks up his speed, only to get home faster and push those eyebrows apart and get rid of that crease of tension.  Stress doesn’t look good on Mikado.   _“If anyone can figure out what’s going on, it’s him.”_

Masaomi agrees with a shudder and holds in a grimace. “Yea…I’ll see you in a bit.”  He shuts his phone and sighs, the thoughts swimming in his head pulse with the familiar onslaught of a migraine, but he still thinks them. 

 

The thought of Izaya returning puts a bad taste in his mouth – but it also drops a little hope in his heart.  Masaomi never liked Izaya, not at all, but somehow he feels that Izaya liked him.  Somehow he feels Izaya thought of him as a friend, and even though Masaomi would crush his skull if given the chance, even he wonders how much a bastard like him can change. 

 

In the midst of mulling over this, Masaomi catches a familiar face.  “Anri-chan?”  He considers adding some embarrassing pick-up line, but he lacks the mental energy for it.  Even  just thinking of Izaya drains him completely. 

 

Anri whips around, and stares at him with wide eyes filled with fear.  Masaomi blinks – something definitely isn’t right.  “Kida-kun, where’s Mikado?” 

 

The urgency in her voice makes the nervousness in his stomach bubble.  “Home, I just spoke with him a minute ago?”

 

“Saki?” She asks, equal urgency. 

 

“Also should be at her apartment, why?” 

 

Anri’s eyes shine red for a brief second, and Masaomi sees the smallest bit of a sword peeking out from her palm.  “Saika is awake,” she looks as if she’s about to cry. 

 

Masaomi stands in silence, the beat of his heart rings in his ears and he feels it slam against his ribcage.  He feels the itching need to call Saki and then call Mikado and sit with him on the phone until he sees his friend with his very eyes and he can hold onto him and refuse to let go.  “Who is it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Anri shrugs, and to see Anri so visibly shaken is fearful.  “I don’t know what they want, maybe it’s to start Slasher attacks again,”

 

Masaomi freezes.  “Celty-san’s head.”

 

Anri looks at him and swallows, “We have to warn her,”

 

Masaomi looks at her with such fear in his eyes, Anri knows before he even speaks, “It’s already gone, someone’s already taken it.” 

 

“You don’t think…” she trails off and Masaomi picks up on the words that she has trouble saying, he knows just from the way they catch in her throat. 

 

“It’s not him,” He says, and although he has no guarantee he believes himself.  Something deep in his gut tells him to trust Mikado’s faith in Izaya.  “They’re looking for him, and I don’t doubt that he is somehow connected – but it isn’t him.” He says firmly.

 

Anri looks out the skies with a solemn look, the red tinge in her eyes pulses beneath the overpowering brown and Masaomi wonders if she’s searching through her children to find the one.   “Something is wrong in Ikebukuro.”  She whispers.

 

Masaomi shudders, shoves his hands in his pockets and mumbles in agreement. 

 

Something is definitely wrong. 

 

_Where are you, Izaya?_

 

 

 

Izaya does not try to hide. 

 

He dawns the familiar black jacket, relishes the warmth of the fur circling around his wrists and can’t keep down the nostalgic smile that lights up his face.  Izaya considers sliding around alleys and keeping his return a secret.  But that won’t do him good for his purpose.  He needs to be found.  

 

He wonders who will find him fist.  Shinra? Shizuo?  People who want his head on a platter?  He closes his eyes and relishes the feeling of wind stinging his cheeks, the only thing missing is the weight of his knife pressed against his palm.   The noise warms his ears, and he hears the whispers around him.  The people stare but the paths still don’t clear, he is Orihara Izaya, king of blending in.    

 

And yet, he feels as if Ikebukuro sings for him upon his return.  He pushes away the guilt, forces it down and lets himself enjoy these few moments of bliss.  He pretends he’s a civilian, returning to his home district.  He pretends he’s not evil, even if for a small amount of time, just to feel at home. 

 

“I-za-ya!”  He glances up and catches the familiar gleam of Simon’s eyes.  “Come! Come home eat sushi!”  He waves his flyer and Izaya chuckles.  It’s warming, that so much has changed, but Simon still has that same twinkle in his eyes, the same simplistic Japanese despite two years passing. 

 

“Ah, I’ll have to pass for today, thanks Simon.” 

 

“I-za-ya is busy?”  He wrinkles his eyebrows and Izaya feels guilt climbing in his stomach.  But on closer inspection, he sees concern, pure concern for _him_.  And it stings that Simon cares for him.  He’s not done anything to him, but Simon is not an idiot.  He understands much more than he can speak and he knows very well of all the stuff Izaya has done.  And yet, the concern is still there.

 

“Not the same type of busy,” He offers a gentle smile, every bit genuine as he can muster and that makes Simon smile. 

 

And while he wears that smile, a familiar call of a rude nickname makes the loud sounds of Ikebukuro dull down to a silent hum at the back of his ears.  “Oi, Flea!” 

 

Izaya feels his heart constrict.  It takes him a long time to look.  It takes him a while to muster up the courage to raise his eyes.  He feels his heart pounding against his chest and as much as he’s trained himself not to, he feels the brief flicker of surprise coat his features before he can wash it off.   And since it’s already there, he decides to keep it.  He lets his surprise show, and keeps the itching need for his poker face to climb over it down.  He needs to stay _sincere_.

 

Those brown eyes still hold the unrestrained anger Izaya is so used to.  He sees the heaving of Shizuo’s chest, and the cigarette in his mouth is already bent.  It slips out of his lips to the floor and the blonde storms at him, clenching and unclenching fists as if he can’t decide what to do with them.   He can’t blame him, really, Izaya almost hopes Shizuo gives into the desire and punches him straight back to Arakawa. 

 

Izaya forces out the name he’s been practicing for two years, despite out how vile and wrong it tastes on his tongue.  

 

“Shizuo.” 

 

 

 

The way Shizuo finds him is anti-climactic, to say the least. 

 

It starts out with whispers.  He usually tunes out whispers, they’re usually about him.  But he catches the name in them, and Shizuo freezes.  He keeps walking, claiming it as a trick of his ears until he catches it again.  Shizuo follows them,  follows them until Izaya’s name is on everyone’s tongue and it’s itching to be used on his own. 

 

And then, he sees him. 

 

He’s speaking with Simon, and it’s him.  He wears that same jacket, and Shizuo can’t quite see his face, but it’s so obviously him that his heart constricts.  He’s not sure what to say, and digs around for his phone to call Shinra but pauses.  He can’t waste time – he can’t lose him.  Shizuo fears that.  He fears that if he lifts his eyes for one second Izaya will leave.  The man he hasn’t seen in two years will disappear and slip through his fingers and Shizuo _can’t_ let that happen. 

 

He means to say it warmly, call out his name in a friendly manner that will keep Izaya from running.  But in the end, he can’t contol the gruffness of his voice.

 

“Oi, Flea!” 

 

Shizuo expects a lot of things.  But true emotion is not one of them.  Izaya holds back on his typical smirk, and his red eyes shine with surprise.  Shizuo stomps forwad, unable to contain himself.  Adrenaline pumps through his veins and all he can think is he _needs_ to get to Izaya.  He doesn’t know what he’ll do when he gets there, but he needs to touch him, feel the coldness of his skin and be sure that yes, he’s _Izaya_. 

 

The call of his name freezes him in his tracks.

 

_“Shizuo.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry this took so long! Had to deal with finals with summer classes and my laptop broke ugh. Still dealing with Dell's crappy customer service to get that fixed. But anyway, thank you for reading!


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